


Holy Parasite

by tjstar



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Aliens, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Astronauts, Friends With Benefits, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Missions Gone Wrong, Morning Sickness, Mpreg, Mutation, NASA, Riding, Sci-Fi Horror - Freeform, Sick Fic, Spiders, Supernatural Elements, Surgery, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-13 20:51:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12992280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tjstar/pseuds/tjstar
Summary: “I’ve gotten knocked up by an alien Black Widow,” Josh says. “Respect me.”Tyler stares at Josh’s ultrasound picture with skepticism.“You’ll be famous, Josh, you will. In case you don’t die.”





	Holy Parasite

**Author's Note:**

> Cassini* is a sophisticated spacecraft exploring the Saturnian system since 2004
> 
> GISS* - Goddard Institute for Space Studies

The light, the light is the only thing he sees. Not the light at the end of the road, in the end of the tunnel — a _violent_ light, the eyes of the predator are like bright-yellow lasers. It looks like a tremendous arachnid with its hungry mouth agape, and, and he’d take a picture if he wasn’t paralyzed by both lack of air and a strong wave of terror. It hisses, ready to attack him for the second time, all the lessons he’s learned in the Astronaut Training Center are forgotten; its midsection opens, a slivery sting flashes like a giant needle, a sword, bringing nothing but a sharp pain in the center of his belly. The worst thing is, though, that his space suit is not that hermetic anymore, the sting fills the hole, it pokes his skin, it goes through him in a harsh movement that may break his spine. Then, everything stops, an alien creature spews out a bunch of slippery cobwebs to glue the tear in his space suit, so optimistically orange and now decorated with a brownish-green spittle.

Then, he hears the voices.

Josh jolts awake, blankly rolling over onto his side as the aftermath of the nightmare begins to pool in his stomach, it boils, bubbles pop up in the back of his throat. All of his senses are exacerbated: he hears the freezer humming in the kitchen, hears the blood thudding in his ears, his olfactory receptors catch so many smells it might cause a nosebleed. Probably. He feels the odor of his own sweat and his shaving cream, and, a second later — a pungent stench of his vomit piled on the parquet next to his bed.

“It was just a dream,” Josh gasps out, his head hangs limply over the side of the mattress. “Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream —”

 _It_ doesn’t let him finish, filling his mouth with his dinner for the second time, an acrid scent, an acidic taste and inability to peel himself up from the bed and stumble into the en-suite bathroom.

“It was just a dream,” Josh spits. The digital clock is too bright.

5:52AM.

A perfect time for a stomach bug to wake up.

Josh groans, unsure if he can actually move without making any more mess, he presses his palms to his ears to muffle the gurgling in his stomach but it’s too loud.

They call it a post-traumatic stress disorder, but Josh knows it’s bullshit. The Director of Space Flight Center would never admit that one of their astronauts had actually gotten attacked by an extraterrestrial being; Josh got that slime all over his space suit, he had a deep scratch on his stomach, but —

“You’re young and healthy, Dun,” the nurses said in unison. They had spent a lot of time performing tests, they had been checking him, his vitals and _especially_ his guts — all clear. No internal bleeding, no nothing. He didn’t have a _wound_ , just a graze.

“You’ve just scratched your skin while dressing,” a specialist from NASA Safety Center claimed.

“You’ve got potential,” Josh’s boss smiled, holding a vial with the slime-samples. “You’re doing a good job.”

And they gave him a month of vacation. To recover after that damn ‘proving ground’ Mission at Mars.

 _It was just a nightmare_ , he repeats. Just a nightmare. When he sits up, the nasty-tasting saliva coats his tongue again, and he swallows repeatedly, bringing his hand up to his mouth and retching into his wrist.

Josh ignores the swaying walls and the too-slippery floor as he staggers into the bathroom to take a bucket and a pack of washcloths. He doesn’t want his stomach acid to ruin this nice interior.

 

***

It’s hard to function normally.

It’s been a week of waking up unbearably sick, a week of ruined pillowcases when he couldn’t make it to the toilet again. Josh keeps a bucket under his bed to be prepared for the next time, still hoping that the next time will be the last. These digits — 5:52AM — are mocking him. He sets his alarm clock for 5:00 to have time to resort to drastic measures.

And then he goes to work for the first time after the assault.

He’s on training again, just to prove he’s ready for the next mission, extravehicular activity included. He’s been there, he’s done that a dozen times at least, but it’s hard not to get distracted by his teammates’ heartbeat. It’s like a scene from a movie where a character slowly turns to a vampire — they _hear_. A cacophony of noises. Mostly, Josh listens to Mark’s babbling about the newest Cassini* images; Mark is a space engineer and sort of Josh’s friend. Josh joins the conversation because he doesn’t want to spill his bad mood on somebody else, and Mark is just a childishly excited guy who’s just gotten a dream job.  

“It’s fascinating, dude,” Josh rasps out.

The sound of engine makes Josh feel nauseous. It’s like an inner tornado caused by all the vibrations and humming, and Josh leans against the wall, unable to look at the spacecraft simulator let alone get inside of it. His body is usually well-prepared for zero gravity, but his organs keep sending SOS signals to his brain. He hasn’t had breakfast, but something’s churning inside of him.

Something foreign.

He’s getting glances from people working at their computers; he doesn’t want to distract them from writing their rapports and checking other astronauts’ results. This place is just a hive of space bees and Josh is about to get bitten to death if he quits his duty.

“What have you been doing yesterday?” Mark laughs, patting Josh’s shoulder. “Tough night?”

Josh is a non-drinker and everybody knows it. He throws his head back in attempts to shove back the flow that’s about to rise up his esophagus. No wonders he wakes up choking all the time. And Josh still can’t get inside the spacecraft simulator, he’s caught the infection for the first time in his life, his guts are about to twist themselves inside-out even though it’s not 5:52AM.

“I need to see a doctor,” Josh gives up. “My stomach’s killing me,” he tastes bile as he speaks.

“Ouch,” Mark nods sympathetically.

The speakers bleed with sounds, it hurts his eardrums; his uniform seems too tight, so he furiously tugs at the zipper, sweat-slick fingers are weak and useless.

“Help me make it to a Medical Center,” Josh wheezes out.

He’s subconsciously afraid he might embarrass himself on their way there, but mostly, he’s too sick to care.

 

***

“Do you see this fogged area?”

The Doctor waves Josh’s X-ray picture in front of his nose. He’d use this one to watch the solar eclipse even though these home-made methods never work.

“Do you see it, Mr. Dun?”

A dark cloud covers his vertebra and seems to be sticking to his stomach area.

“Is it… is it a cancer?” Josh asks, mouth sour and dry. He thinks he’s allowed to puke due to pure fear. And then he’s going to pass out, probably.

“It’s hard to say,” the Doctor responds. “You’re young and strong.”

These well-needed qualities are gonna give him a cardiac arrest one day. This medical office is his grave, and the chair he’s sitting on is a Hell’s heated frying pan.

“Same shit again,” Josh sputters. “I need to know. I want to know.”

They’re roaming Space but they can’t diagnose him in seconds — Josh is frustrated and is about to start hating technologies. Josh looks at the Solar System poster on the wall, hanging next to a scheme of a human body. It’s ironic enough.

“You don’t have to worry, Mr. Dun, you don’t even have to pay for any possible kind of treatment your disease might require; NASA Administrator brings the situation under his control,” the Doctor nods his head, tiny glasses jump up on the tip of his nose. “He has already found a high-qualified specialist who’s gonna work with you individually. Mr. Joseph will be ready to see you in an hour. And, I’m gonna say it again — you don’t have to worry.”

_Mr. Joseph._

It’s like getting punched by karma.

Because Josh knows this name, and not only this name — he knows this face, this body; Mr. Joseph — or just Tyler — still probably hates him. They were just nerdy students, they were chatting on the internet, texting and sexting; Tyler had just applied to Academy of Aviation and Space Medicine, and Josh had just started his path to the stars in a Training Center. They celebrated their first meeting together, intoxicated on arousal boiling in their veins. Josh wasn’t in love, Tyler simply said: ‘no strings’. Neither of them called afterwards. Their private chat died for a while.

And now Josh has a fogged area on his X-ray picture.

And Tyler is going to figure it out.

And gloat, probably.

 

***

When Josh finds out that Tyler has his own office in a Flight Medicine Clinic he’s half proud, half degraded.

When Josh enters Tyler’s office he thinks Tyler is dead, putrefying under the table with the worms swarming in his flesh. He thinks so because the room reeks of everything at once, hitting Josh’s receptors so hard he gags into his palm. His stomach drops, and if his disease is a disease he thinks about, he can guess why.

But then, he hears Tyler’s heartbeat.

The smell is still here.

“Don’t you feel this stench?” Josh sniffs the air.

Tyler’s voice is quiet.

“Hello?”

Josh doesn’t notice him at first, he’s standing behind one of the cupboards. Josh doesn’t say hello, doesn’t shake his hand, preoccupied with his clogged up nostrils. The smell is familiar, he remembers it — it’s just a twisted version of Tyler’s perfume. A zombie-version of it.

“I know about… your problem,” Tyler says, sitting down on the edge of the table. “I’ll try my best, Josh, just don’t jump to conclusions…”

“Dude,” Josh gestures at him to shut up. “Your cologne.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Tyler tugs at the front of his white coat and buries his nose in it. “My clothes don’t even smell,” he shrugs. “We’ll perform a biochemical blood analysis, then…”

Josh doesn’t let him finish.

“Your cologne,” he repeats. “It makes me want to throw up.”

He clenches his teeth as the liquid creeps up, along with a mucous chunk that tickles his tonsils. It tastes like iron this time. It’s not 5:52AM, but Josh can’t fight it, rushing to the metal sink in the end of the room, running past a bewildered Tyler and heaving his stomach up until he feels like crying. He acknowledges Tyler appearing next to him, his glasses hang on his breast pocket as he blindly squints his eyes at Josh.

“Sorry,” Josh taps the faucet to wash away the crap that’s just left his body.

Tyler takes his dorky glasses on.

“Wait,” he hunches over the sink just like Josh five seconds ago. “No way,” he whispers.

Josh blinks just to see a few bloody threads in the mush in the sink.

“I’m dying of stomach cancer,” Josh chokes out, sliding down the wall. “Bye.”

He panics, his vision swims; he throws his hand over his stomach to hold back a bout of nausea that tortures him. He closes his eyes tightly, but the vertigo doesn’t stop, making him feel seasick. With a health like this, he can’t be an astronaut anymore. That’s how his life goes downhill.

Josh wants to fall into a black hole as Tyler begins to scrutinize his vomit.

“Gonna lick it?” Josh snarls.

Tyler doesn’t respond, scratching the back of his neck.

Josh’s tongue and his gums still taste like blood.

He wipes the sweat off his temples and tries to not throw up again; Tyler’s cologne is just a death for Josh’s respiratory system.

“Don’t want to bother you,” Tyler says, politely. “But I have to.”

He gently kicks Josh’s shin with his toe, making him open his eyes and hiccup. Tyler crouches down, Josh holds his breath and focuses on the thing Tyler holds in the tweezers — it’s a piece of something that’s definitely not a crumb of a digested food. Josh scrunches up his nose.

“What the fuck?”

Tyler twists the tweezers, here is a slice of a slimy gunk that kind of looks like a Cephalopod limb, approximately one inch long and probably organic.

And no, Tyler doesn’t show any desire to lick it.

“You’ve thrown it up.”

The substance has blood-stains all over it.

Josh can’t resist it when a gag reflex wrecks him again; he scrambles to turn away from Tyler and this ominous tentacle. Tyler waits for him to stop shaking, going to the opposite corner of the office and placing it onto the glass under the microscope. Josh goes limp beside the wall.

“Can I…” he props himself up with his elbows. “Can I just go home?” his head’s too heavy to think straight. “Or can you please fuck off of me with this _smell_?”

It’s not this poignant now, maybe because of his nearing faint. And Tyler is just a laboratory ghost in his white coat, surrounded by the terrible-looking instruments.

“You need to calm down, Josh,” Tyler coos, at the same time filling a syringe with a colorless fluid.

When he’s next to Josh, he doesn’t fight, doesn’t trash, doesn’t scream.

“Wow, you finished the sleeve,” Tyler squeezes Josh’s bicep. “Looks nice.”

Josh doesn’t ask why Tyler can’t use his non-tattooed arm. He lets Tyler sink the needle under the tree branches drawn on his skin and watches the serum mixing with his blood. He’s not coming home. Instead, he’s being led to a cot behind the green curtain, to a hard mattress and an orthopedic pillow, but reality is as far as the dormant ache in his stomach.

As far as Tyler’s voice.

“Calm down.”

 

***

Josh wakes up by something long and cold prodding his stomach, and before he comprehends what it exactly is, he catches it, hearing it pop.

“Hey!”

Josh is aware of a few things: first — his t-shirt is pulled up; second — Tyler pokes his stomach, his hands are covered with latex gloves; and third — he’s grasping at Tyler’s forefinger with an actual threat of breaking it. Getting back to reality sucks, but at least, he hasn’t choked on his own vomit. Josh wonders why he doesn’t feel the urge to spew his insides when Tyler and his awful cologne are both beside him.

Then, he realizes that the smell is gone, and Tyler’s hair is a little damp.

“What are you doing?” Josh rubs his eyes.

“Examining your abdominal viscera,” Tyler shrugs.

Josh shivers and rolls his eyes skyward.

“And?”

“And?” Tyler echoes.

“Found somethin’?” Josh slurs.

Tyler cautiously rolls back along with the chair.

“Well,” he nervously snaps the glove against his wrist. “It’s not a cancer.”

“Thank God!” Josh cries out. It’s just a weird infection, definitely, and Tyler has a remedy for it, and Josh is going to take a magical pill and be completely healthy by the morning —

His thoughts are thwarted by a firm statement.

“You’ve thrown up a fragment of an amniotic sac.”

“I’ve done… what?”

Josh attempts to get up but Tyler’s hands on his shoulders pin him back down.

“A bag of waters. One of the membranes peeled off and somehow got into your stomach. I’m gonna find out how. It’s phenomenal,” he rolls to the table where a microscope is placed. “I sent the results to a friend in GISS* and she said yes. Yes, it’s an amnion, I mean, its mutated form. What the Hell has happened to you, Josh?”

Tyler sounds concerned, Tyler looks concerned.

Josh holds his bare stomach tightly with his hand, he glances at it in disbelief.

“Well…” he’s as empty as a balloon. “Can I get some water first?”

A glass appears out of nowhere; Josh’s eyes and his brain are uncoordinated.

“Tell me your story, Josh. I’ve just gotten transferred here, come on, I’ve been working here for less than a week, and so much weird stuff happened. Explain, tell me why NASA wants me to babysit you daily and nightly. I was told that your case was specific, and those black shades on your X-ray, and —” Tyler’s breath hitches. “What happened during your last expedition? Like, roughly two months ago?”

Josh sits up, slowly, not to bother the water he’s just consumed.

“It looked like a huge spider.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. It had — I don’t remember. Six legs? Big glowing eyes and that weird tube that penetrated my stomach? It ruined my space suit, but people from Safety Center assumed it was ruined from the very beginning. They’re afraid, Ty, they think it was their fault,” Josh points at the small round scar right below his chest. “When my team found me inside of that cave, I was unconscious. That bitch sprinkled me with its slime; it somehow helped avoiding a complete opening of my suit, and… I woke up at the space station. I don’t know. I was going to be fine,” Josh massages his temples. “They promised. I didn’t have anything odd inside of me.”

But now, he does.

And he has no idea what could crawl into his body, there were no footprints, nothing except him and that alien goo. Tyler listens to Josh’s story and writes something down his notebook, biting the end of the pen; he’s as diligent as Josh had known him years ago.

Josh is just Tyler’s mission.

And Tyler is well-paid.

“Got it,” Tyler says, tapping the pen against the table.

“I’m getting sick every morning. I just want it to stop chasing me,” Josh whimpers lowly.

His words swim past Tyler’s ears.

“You need to have an ultrasound examination,” Tyler tugs at his hair. Too many nervous gestures, too many. “Do you still feel my perfume?”

He changes the topic so harshly Josh’s brain doesn’t get it.

“No.”

“Good,” Tyler smirks. “I changed, and I tried to wash it away.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Josh smiles, as sincerely as he can in his current state. “What about an ultrasound?”

Tyler looks at the microscope as if it’s about to eat him.

“I have a theory.”

 

***

A handful of a cold jelly spreads over Josh’s stomach, and that’s when questions make his brain swell, his tongue itches.

“How do you know how to use it?” he asks when Tyler moves the probe across his pelvic area.

“I’m smart. That’s why I’m working _here_ ,” Tyler peers into a monitor. “Your superiors told me I’m allowed to use all the equipment I need, whenever I need,” he chews the inside of his cheek as he examines Josh’s upper stomach. “Dang.”

Josh doesn’t like this _dang_.

This wing of the building seemed to be deserted when they entered it. They’ve met just a couple of nurses and patients on their way, but Tyler nodded at them to keep silent.

“Yes, but why do you use it at night?!” Josh shouts out.

“You’ve slept for too long,” Tyler replies.

Josh squirms as Tyler presses the probe harder.

“Whatever.”

“I’m an insomniac, don’t you remember?” Tyler quips, Josh knows it. Tyler was the one who couldn’t fall asleep while they were lying in the bed naked. “And you’re… pregnant.”

“You’re funny,” Josh deadpans.

Tyler adjusts his glasses.

“I’m not kidding,” he points at the vague grey dot on the screen. “See? It’s… its heart. It’s beating.”

Tyler turns pale.

Tyler’s not a good actor, he can’t fake emotions, and this emotion is — this is fear. And Josh is feared, too.

The brick inside of him churns.

“H-how?”

“Josh, I swear I would have never believed it,” Tyler blurts out. “Well. Let’s take a family picture?”

Tyler has always been a cynical piece of shit.

Josh wants to punch him real hard.

“Okay, okay, this joke was terrible,” Tyler licks his faded lips. “I’m gonna print it out. It can’t be a mistake, holy shit. And — and it’s definitely not a human,” Tyler fidgets, snapping his gloves rapidly while Josh tries to find a drop of saliva to swallow. “Here’s a foetus, it definitely is. Now I understand why they called for me — I’ve worked with some genetic mutations before, but this — this is something special,” Tyler’s crazy side takes over. “I’m gonna observe you.”

These news are too solid for Josh’s softened brain.

“Am I gonna give a birth?”

“No.”

And Josh nods, accepting the bitter truth. Tyler wipes the gel off Josh’s stomach with a blue towel.

This is the end of his career, of his life. All the journalists are about to find it out too, he has no doubts — he’s gonna be on the magazines’ covers, on TV, everywhere. In case Tyler can’t keep his mouth shut, of course. And Josh is still too weak and frazzled to dive into the situation; maybe his mind’s too fuzzy because of the sedative.

But more likely, this foetus is just poisoning him.

“It’s two-inch long, it’s growing so fast,” Tyler says. “No gender reveal though.”

Tyler quivers as he turns the equipment off.

Josh’s innards are frozen.

“I’ll perform the surgery after a full medical survey,” Tyler explains, shedding his coat off. “We’ll move on tomorrow. You gotta get home now. Come on, Buzz Lightyear, get up. I’ll drive,” Tyler shakes him, breaking the trance.

Josh is dizzy, the floor turns to ice again. He keeps stumbling, he doesn’t say a word when Tyler leads him through the hallways, too-friendly nurses give them their lipstick-drawn smiles. Tyler helps him out, into the car, so sickeningly careful Josh wants to smash his head against the dashboard until the airbag strangles him to death. Josh’s emotional range is not that wide — all he feels now is mortification blended with desperation. He’s stress-resistant enough not to start weeping in front of Tyler.

Tyler fumbles with GPS.

“Tell me your address.”

Josh tells him.

Needing help is okay, but being an incubator for an extraterrestrial egg, or worm or whatever — it’s beyond the scope of fiction. Especially, when _it_ takes so much space already. They drive in silence, down the empty roads with lonely cars with unhappy people locked inside. Josh’s back hurts by the time they approach his house; the pain is sharp, like a knife below his shoulder blade.

“Gonna stay?” he asks as they step over the threshold.

“I think so,” Tyler yawns. “Thirty-six hours without sleep, a double shift and so on. Don’t actually want to smash my car and leave _our_  baby daddy alone.”

Josh just gapes at this fountain of sarcasm, but well, Tyler hasn’t changed. Before Josh manages to resent, Tyler shuffles into the living room and falls down onto the couch, throwing his forearm over his eyes. That’s not what Josh has expected — he expected a late night conversation full of _‘you’re gonna be okay’_ s and _‘we’ll find the solution’_ s.

He wasn’t ready for having Tyler passed out on top of the throw blanket.

Maybe it’s just a way to cope.

“Sure, my house is your house,” Josh sighs. “Me and my inner little green man will be in the upstairs bedroom,” he adds, slapping Tyler’s thigh. Tyler snorts.

It’s impossible to shake awake an insomniac who’s finally fallen asleep.

 

***

Next morning, an alien embryo is still inside of Josh even though his guts seem to be escaping his body through his mouth. This routine disappoints him. But at least, his toilet doesn’t make these specific sounds the shuttle’s Waste Collection System does. Josh doesn’t notice any blood this time, nothing extraordinary, nothing to tell Tyler about. Josh coughs, wipes his lips and gets up, contemplating his pallid-green face in the mirror. He brushes his teeth when Tyler appears behind his back, a silent shadow with a glimpse of hope.

“Sorry about yesterday.”

“It’s fine,” Josh spits the toothpaste out. “Just tell me _our_ plans.”

Josh’s pregnancy fits perfectly for their almost-established relationship.  

“I’ve examined the X-ray and ultrasound pictures, and all I can say is that it’s impossible to perform the surgery at the moment,” Tyler steps backwards as if he’s waiting for a kick. Josh’s vision flickers in and out. “Its feeding tube is placed the way it might cause a serious bleeding if it gets taken out right now, and I still have to learn more about your case. We have time, I promise.”

Josh’s knees hurt, on the brink of buckling underneath him.

“How do you know?”

“I don’t,” Tyler says honestly. “I just try to predict its steps. I’m gonna dig real deep to find the way to save you, Josh, I’m as scared as you are. The embryo is not gonna kill you for as long as we don’t try to kill it. I’d say it’s logical,” Tyler follows him on his way downstairs.

“I don’t even wanna know what else I’m gonna get from this pregnancy,” Josh says firmly. “What if I’m gonna have a miscarriage?”

Tyler looks crestfallen.

“I’m a surgeon, Josh. Not an obstetrician.”

Josh is on the edge, the thing inside of him begins to move, feeling his mood, maybe having its early breakfast.

“I’m begging you for a surgery, I’m not gonna give a birth to this shit!”

“I’ll plan it up,” Tyler responds. “The surgery. But first things first — I’m gonna go back home and take my clothes and stuff,” he snaps his fingers and hurries to the front door; he gushes with energy while Josh feels like he’s just climbed up the highest mountain.

“What? Ty?! Wait,” he hollers but the answer makes him fall silent.

“We’re moving in together!”

Josh can hear cicadas chirring in his head.

 

***

Josh’s blanket has red spaceships printed on it — his mother’s present. He’s wearing a NASA t-shirt — his boss’ present. His life is too stereotypical, his friends always try to cheer him up with space-related gifts. He has a few rocket-shaped pencil-sharpeners, socks and earbuds with aliens, he’d dyed his hair green a couple of times.

Now, he’s doing one more stereotypical thing, lying in bed and crumpling up a pillow in his hands and pulling his t-shirt up. He feels his still solid abs underneath the pads of his fingers. He’s not gaining weight, but sometimes he eats too much. Sometimes he throws up too much. He needs meat, a lot of uncooked meat to feed the monster inside of him; all he needs is a fresh flesh, fresh blood. The liquid in his veins is rotting.

Tyler still hasn’t come back home.

Josh grunts, shoving the pillow underneath his shirt, tucking a corner of it into the waistband of his sweatpants. His stomach looks too big, too unnaturally bloated and _soft_. He punches the pillow, again and again, imagining punching an alien, that hideous spider-like predator who embedded its biological material into him.

It’s a silent hysteria that leaves him devastated and sick.

Josh doesn’t remember passing out, it feels like a single moment — Tyler shakes him by his shoulder and Josh lies on his side, curled over his fake belly.

“You were screaming.”

Josh scrambles to drag the pillow from underneath his clothes and throws it away. It hits the wall; Tyler patiently goes to bring it back.

“I don’t want it,” Josh grumbles.

“I did a research,” Tyler says. He holds a thick blue folder in his hands.

Josh is still half awake when Tyler moves his legs to flop down onto the edge of the bed. He takes Josh’s hospital pictures, these white-black-grey abstractions and a bunch of printed out articles.

“Hit me,” is all Josh can manage.

Tyler’s speech is a lightning.

“Have you heard of a Laughing Queen?” Tyler asks. Josh shakes his head. “It’s a new type of spiders discovered a few months ago. Entomologists call it a Laughing Queen because the female-spiders have a mark resembling a laughing emoji on their heads,” he starts passionately.

Josh cocks his eyebrows.

“Why are you telling me about this?”

“Because. Here’s a thing about their pregnancy: a female gets pregnant and finds another male to lay the larvae into him later, and a poor spider-dude has to deal with it on his own. It’s a role reversal, but here’s the most interesting part — the eggs hatch inside of them and baby-queens get out of the male-carrier, killing him,” Tyler hands Josh a newspaper. “See? Pregnant males are so rare, like, seahorse-males are the only animals who can carry the offspring. They have wombs.”

“I don’t have a womb,” Josh’s voice cracks. “I’m sure.”

“Queen-males don’t either,” Tyler assures him. “The foetus grows inside of the bag of waters. I mean, it’d be cool if your pregnancy was similar to theirs. It resembles of surrogacy.”

“And the alien is going to rip my tummy? Thanks,” Josh elbows Tyler’s side.

“No, no, I’m not about it,” Tyler shakes his head. “Laughing Queen’s pregnancy goes with the periods of hibernation of the embryos where they get covered with the husk which they use to scratch the male’s belly. In a majority of cases, males don’t know they’re pregnant, until the babies kill them and get out.”

Josh’s body sweats, he takes the pillow and hugs it.

“And?”

“And,” Tyler glances at the folder. “It can be your case.”

Josh struggles to gulp his stomach acid back down.    

“Are we gonna wait for the embryo to… _pupate_ inside of me?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Josh wipes his mouth with the hem of his t-shirt.

Tyler flips the page.

“You’ve had so many similarities so far. By the way, no one knows where an actual Laughing Queen came from.”

“So you think aliens tested that male-pregnancy shit on spiders and now they’re gonna do it with humans? Like, they’ve started with me?!”

Josh screams, his eyes sting, he lurches forward with his hands wrapped around his torso.

“Gosh, can we stop this crap already?!”

Tyler makes the situation more awkward.

“I know a thing that’s worse than getting pregnant,” he says, his eyes are full of optimistic glow.

“I don’t believe, but continue,” Josh mewls.

“Biting off your genitalia after mating,” Tyler blurts out. “Like Herennia multipuncta, also known as a coin spider. They do that to be a better bodyguard…”

“Stop,” Josh cuts him off. “Just. Stop.”

“And that alien didn’t shove the probe up your ass,” Tyler continues. “I think it’s pretty good too.”

Josh shivers at the thought of getting actually raped by that creature.

“I’ve gotten knocked up by an alien Black Widow,” Josh says. “Respect me.”

Tyler stares at Josh’s ultrasound picture with skepticism.

“You’ll be famous, Josh, you will. In case you don’t die.”

Josh chews on his thumb, anxious; the female-arachnid that attacked him had already been pregnant, which means there was a male who was a real _father_. The realization of this fact is gonna give him vivid nightmares.

 

***

Tyler takes pictures of Josh every day.

“Come on, Josh, your abs are better than mine even though you’re pregnant. I mean, I don’ have any,” he murmurs, his face is half hidden behind a camera.

Josh wishes Tyler could stop making these compliments.

“I wouldn’t call this _condition_ a pregnancy,” Josh replies.

On their first week of living together, they don’t talk much. Tyler constantly scribbles in his notebook or sits at his laptop with his glasses on while Josh paces across the house, having nothing left to do. He doesn’t go outside anymore except these late-night trips to the clinic with Tyler. They’re getting calls from NASA, but Tyler doesn’t reveal the details; Josh skips one more mission and gets upset.

He wants to be helpful for Earth.

Tyler inspects Josh’s new ultrasound pictures.

“It’s getting ready for the pupating,” he points his finger at the small white line on the picture.

Josh’s stomach grows a bit bigger, he’s getting backaches, he’s taking a leak every twenty minutes. Tyler tells him to get prepared for the unplanned surgery if the process goes wrong.

Josh even tries to joke but fails miserably.

“Should I start drinking to kill this caterpillar inside of me?”

“Sure. And it’ll get so pissed it’ll devour your guts.”

Tyler is right, Tyler offers to start singing lullabies for the alien embryo but Josh laughs it off. They even give it a name — Holy Parasite — as a Green Day song reference, and also because they have a chance to be the most shocking scientific discovery. Tyler tries his best to keep up Josh’s spirit when he thinks he’s gonna die from the pain striking up and down his body. He’s nervous 24/7, he’s queasy when he stands up or gets into a car.

Josh feels humiliated when Tyler gives him an actual pregnancy test.

“I’m just curious,” Tyler says, plastic stick is like a sword. “We need to do it. For science.”

Josh agrees, he pees on it and sees two lines. Nothing special. Tyler keeps the test in the box, he’s stuffing up a briefcase full of evidences, everything they might need later — they just want to be focused on the good side of it. They have a ton of proofs, but they can’t give a worldwide announce right now.

Josh can’t interact with people, the smells are too sharp.

In the evening, they’re watching a documentary about spiders; Josh hugs a bucket of pop-corn though he’s not hungry.

“We’re nearing the Day X,” Tyler says as they sit on the couch in the living room.

“Press wants to film it,” Josh responds. “They know I’m gonna have a surgery.”

Tyler turns the volume off.

“We’re not filming the surgery.”

“Why not?”

Tyler falters.

“I wanna get as much as I can from this situation,” Josh throws a handful of pop-corn into his mouth. “Benefits, all that shit. Again, why not?”

“Too risky.”

“I can sign my agreement or something. The surgery is too unique itself,” Josh chews so hard he goes deaf for a second.

Tyler reaches for a can of Red Bull and takes a large sip.

“We’ll see.”

He slurps too loudly.

 

***

Holy Parasite begins to rebel; it sucks Josh’s soul out of him as if it feels that it’s gonna be taken out before it gets horns or claws or fangs — it’s gonna murder Josh anyway. Josh hacks up the rusty-red phlegm, spitting it out into the plastic bucket beside his bed. It’s still too early for his damn toxicosis — it’s almost midnight; Josh used to sleep until 5:52AM but today is different.

A few days ago, Tyler said, _‘don’t be afraid to wake me up if you start throwing up blood.’_

It’s exactly this case — it has happened before, but never this bad. There are slimy tendrils splashing in Josh’s bile as if they’re alive. As if the embryo is getting ready to crawl out of his throat. Josh groans, pressing a napkin to his mouth. At the back of his mind, he thinks he should re-locate Tyler into his bedroom and offer him an empty side of the bed. He doesn’t want to look at the bucket as he gets up, holding his hand on his cramping stomach.

“Ty,” Josh leans on the railings. “Come here!”

The TV’s on, but the sound of the evening news is muffled, dim light pours all over the hallway. Josh sighs and goes downstairs to check if Tyler has already fallen asleep. When he makes it to the living room, though, he promptly understands why Tyler doesn’t answer.

He’s _busy_.

Tyler’s head rests on the back of the couch as he lounges there with his earbuds in his ears and with his right hand down his skinny jeans; Josh doesn’t actually want to encroach on Tyler’s privacy, but come on, he’s just vomited up some bloody shit.

“Tyler,” Josh calls, a bit louder.

Tyler doesn’t react, moving his fist faster and stifling a quiet moan, eyes closed tightly. Josh hobbles towards the couch and stops as he hears the hard bass thumping in Tyler’s earbuds; he bucks his hips again and again, it’s not that comfortable, because he hasn’t even pulled his jeans down —

“Fucking great,” Josh curses himself. His cock is so ridiculously soft in his pajama pants; it makes him hate himself even more. “Tyler!” Josh thuds Tyler’s upper arm, bouncing away.

Tyler jumps up on the couch, ripping off the earbuds and dropping them on the cushion; his phone falls out of his pocket, his hand is out of his boxers in a millisecond, his face is flushed.

“Oh,” he exhales, staring up at Josh.

Josh pretends he hasn’t seen anything, averting his eyes while Tyler tugs his hoodie down to cover his groin.

“I threw up blood,” Josh mumbles. “Just wanted you to look at it.”

“Sure,” Tyler looks like a degraded teen. “Sure. Let’s go,” he scowls, his ears are still bright-pink. “I haven’t slept in two days,” Tyler says as they go upstairs.

Josh sleeps too much. It’s like his own hibernation.

Josh gives him a bucket and lies back down, on his side, taught by his constantly aching back and his nausea.

“What is this?”

“It looks like your gastric mucosa,” Tyler winces. “The embryo irritates your stomach. Here’s probably a tear or an ulcer, and dang, it’s dangerous.”

Josh wants to howl, tugging his blanket to his chin.

“I don’t want to die.”

“You will not die,” Tyler promises. “I’ll clean it up.”

Tyler’s jeans are still undone, Josh spots the waistband of his striped underwear as he bends over the side of the bed to get a washcloth.

Josh’s libido is nowhere to be found.

 

***

Spinach is one of those things that don’t make him puke. Tyler makes cocktails with spinach and God-knows-what-else he puts into a blender; it looks like an actual alien barf and it tastes gross, but Josh is proud of being able to keep it down.

They go for another ultrasound examination and find out that the alien embryo has started coating itself into a dense cocoon. Tyler swears he can take it out. Josh believes him. Tyler gives him vitamins to keep up his immune system which is completely ruined by a foreign object in his abdominal cavity — it moves lower as its weight increases. It’s five-inch long, and Josh can feel it through his skin when he touches his belly.

Sometimes, the alien touches him back.

“We have to wait a week,” Tyler puts an X on the calendar in Josh’s bedroom. “Be careful.”

“I hope it’s gonna behave,” Josh gently rubs his tummy.

He sort of wonders if it’s a boy or a girl.

Three days later, he’s having a nervous breakdown.

Mostly, he denies it. He just stands in front of the fogged mirror, swishing the condensate away with his palm. His torso’s still wet after the shower, his pajama pants don’t hang too low on his hips, his abs aren’t that conspicuous anymore.

“It’s not me,” Josh says. It’s not him.

It’s just his reflection — the real Josh looks even worse. His skin is pale, cheeks covered with dark stubble; his pink hair is plastered to his forehead like thick curly worms.

Tyler will never admit that.

Tyler hides the scalpel in his bag with instruments, Tyler doesn’t trust him anymore.

And Josh doesn’t think.

He doesn’t remember how these scissors find their way into his palm, they’re sharp enough to puncture a hole and let the beast out. To get rid of this excruciating pregnancy.

“It’s not me.”

Josh closes his eyes, Josh hallucinates of blood and fresh meat, the world goes black all of the sudden. He braces himself for the pain, he wants to cut the nausea out of his stomach along with the cocoon forming there; he doesn’t want to be a carrier.

He has enough strength to make a nice try.

Josh’s vision goes even darker, his stomach clenches or it’s the evil inside of him. It changes its position, tickling and scrubbing his bowels.

“Don’t you dare, gimme the scissors, dang it, Josh!”

He hasn’t locked the door, maybe, his rational side craved to be found by Tyler, Tyler is his savior. He’s grabbing at Josh’s wrist, and Josh fights back as the monster controls him.

“It moves! Fuck, it _moves_ inside of me!” Josh jostles Tyler away, sending him slipping on the tiles. “Stay away from me! Leave me alone, go, go, get out!”

Tyler raises his hands up, palms open.

“I just want to help. Don’t do it, Josh.”

Josh’s hand shakes as he points the tip of the scissors to his belly again.

“We can stop it.”

His head’s on fire, sweat drips down his back.

Tyler’s moves are careful.

“We can, Josh, we can.”

Josh presses the scissors to the bump on his stomach, right below the scar the arachnid left there.

He’s about to make the first cut, and Tyler jumps towards him with the speed of a cheetah, but Josh is fast, too, his instincts are sharpened as he blocks Tyler’s hands, shoving him away. Tyler loses his balance, slamming his side against the bathtub; his face is a grimace of pain as he straightens up and leaps on Josh for the second time.

“Don’t —”

Josh isn’t sure who’s screaming.

Scissors are still clamped in his hand, they bleed.

Josh thinks it’s his stomach and looks down at himself to check the wound. All clean.

“Gosh,” Josh whispers.

Tyler doubles over, cradling his hand to his chest, already stained crimson, almost like a cherry punch on his grey t-shirt; blood flows freely, forming a small puddle on the floor, Tyler’s socks are sprinkled as well. A deep cut crosses Tyler’s left forearm; he cusses and tightens the grip of his good hand, blood slips between his fingers. He leans his shoulder on the wall; Josh throws the blood-fed scissors into the sink. Pity and guilt start to surface, causing a whirlwind in Josh’s brainpan, a tempest, but his words don’t match his feelings.

Tyler outstretches his hand, red ornament runs down to his knuckles. Josh is mesmerized.

“Did I… Did I hit the vein?”

“No.”

Josh wants to apologize, to hug Tyler, but he knows he’s not allowed.

“I freaked out.”

Tyler takes an uneven breath.

“I know,” he scurries past Josh and leaves the bathroom. “I need to bandage the _scratch_.”

Tyler doesn’t inspect the damage.

The creature inside of Josh laughs.

 

***

Tyler’s hand is bandaged from his wrist up to his elbow, and Josh feels sick each time he sees it.

They don’t talk on Wednesday and Thursday as if it’s the end of Tyler’s duty. On Friday, Tyler leaves again, just to buy groceries, but Josh’s paranoid mind tells him that Tyler needs to escape his house.

Josh sits on the couch watching a show about the Black Knight satellite that is approximately thousands years old and allegedly has an extraterrestrial origin. Josh listens to the ufologists’ theories and wonders if he’ll ever be good enough to leave Earth again.

The front door opens.

“How’s your day been?” Tyler asks, immediately going to the kitchen.

“Nice,” Josh mumbles. The days when he doesn’t throw up blood are good ones.

He isn’t sure if Tyler hears it over the rustling of a big brown bag he’s brought from the supermarket.

“Nice!”

Or well, Tyler does.

Josh’s breakdown has made both of them too wary and prudent. Josh keeps watching TV, one frame changes another, zombifying him; he doesn’t notice Tyler jumping over the back of the couch and landing on the cushion next to him. Tyler’s tank top doesn’t cover the bandages. And black tattoos on his arms and on his chest.

“I’m not afraid of you, Josh.”

“What?”

Josh can’t get himself out of the cobweb of the show.

“It… It doesn’t change anything. It was my fault. I should’ve been more careful,” Tyler says, clenching and unclenching his fingers. “Still flexible. See?”

Josh stares at the lines on Tyler’s palm, remembering them being filled up with blood.

“I shouldn’t have been a dick.”

“You have an alien roaming your stomach,” Tyler’s palm gives a light pat against Josh’s torso. “By the way, you’ve always been a dick.”

Josh reads between the lines and gets it as ‘I forgive you.’

“Yeah, you know me. I mean, I shouldn’t have acted like this from the very beginning,” he throws his arm over Tyler’s shoulder. Tyler doesn’t pull away, relaxing and nudging the crook of Josh’s neck.

“You smell good,” Tyler huffs out. “Pheromones?”

“Pheromones?”

Tyler doesn’t have a smell.

Josh wants to prove it, burying his nose in Tyler’s hair.

“I showered,” Tyler informs him. “I hope it helps.”

It helps, it really does, and the spaceship on the screen gets ready to penetrate the sky and be useful for science. Just like Josh used to be. Josh’s thoughts drift back to the day when he caught Tyler on this couch, when he actually thought of masturbating in shower but his terrible condition had turned him down. Tyler rubs Josh’s belly, slow circles underneath his loose t-shirt, almost lulling the alien to sleep, and if it’s not gonna bother him, Josh will definitely be able to resurrect this almost forgotten sensation.

Their short conversation is as awkward as their first time in a motel room.

“I’d like to have sex before I die.”

“You’re not gonna die, Josh.”

“Let me buy you a coffee then.”        

Tyler chuckles, his fingers are tangled in laces of Josh’s sweatpants.

The embryo inside of Josh doesn’t mind.

It’s like a psychedelic trip, more moves and less clothes, sloppy kisses and clammy palms; Josh doesn’t have the guts to banish the thought that Tyler is doing it only to prove that he’s _not scared_ ; he crawls onto Josh’s lap, pulling his boxers down. Josh is not the same, he’s stronger than he’s thought; his hips move too fast and too hard as he squeezes Tyler’s sides, painting his skin with light bruises that are gonna get brighter by the morning. Tyler’s riding him, knees spread and his cock’s rubbing against Josh’s abdomen as he’s half-sitting on the couch, pinned down to it. Josh clings to Tyler, mindful of his bandaged hand.

And he wants more, he gets more; months of abstinence make themselves felt. His current state drives him crazy, he’s too assertive, and Tyler’s so quiet Josh changes his rhythm to hear him.

“Josh… wait,” Tyler gasps out, throwing his head back. “Slow down, p-please, slow down.”

He doesn’t clarify if he’s hurt or just doesn’t want to be the one who comes first. Tyler leans on Josh, stomachs pressed as Josh keeps pushing into him, holding him by his thighs.

“You have a great ass,” Josh compliments blankly.

Tyler spews out a hysterical giggle.

“I need this ass… For some… Other… Stuff,” he finishes, getting up then sitting down in a rush and earning Josh’s growl.

Tyler thrusts into Josh’s palm until he comes, slumping forward with his chin on Josh’s shoulder. They’re high on their newfound connection, but Josh still hasn’t gotten off, Tyler’s come dribbles down his belly. The pressure over Josh’s cock makes him want to fuck Tyler harder while he’s still here. But he’s already fucked up.

“I’m, well,” Josh squirms under Tyler’s weight.

“I know,” Tyler pants, sweat glisters on his temples. “I don’t think I can take the round two.”

“It’s fine,” Josh drawls.

Tyler nods and slides off Josh’s thighs, promptly falling on the couch and wincing as his ass hits the cushion. Josh discerns the round marks on Tyler’s hips and red lines on his back.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Tyler gives him a labored smile. “Sure.”

With that, he grasps at Josh’s strained up cock, jerking it a little too much. For Josh, it takes five more minutes to finally get relieved and spill into a condom when his inner Roswell is about to explode.

If it wasn’t about sadness in Tyler’s eyes, he could’ve said he’s just had the best sex in his life.

 

***

Josh’s condition gets worse in general as they make it to the Surgery Day. Josh is helpless, he throws up bloody chunks every so often, his urine contains red streaks as well. The creature’s growing, damaging his internal organs. While he splashes his face with cold water, Tyler runs across the house, stuffing up Josh’s backpack with spare clothes and daily necessities; they can’t delay their mission and Tyler holds a camera in his hands.

“One more picture before we go.”

Josh lifts his shirt up, seeing the outlines of the round cocoon under his skin.

“Good,” Tyler nods.

Josh knows that Tyler’s gonna need assistants during the surgery and it doesn’t make him happier. He doesn’t want to be exposed in front of those people like a dissected frog, but well, safety comes first.

They pretend that everything goes according to plan and the operation isn’t going to turn to the _Alien Autopsy_ film.

In the car, Josh gets so sick he can’t let go of the barf bag in his hands, breathing into it, heaving and wheezing and maybe missing it couple times before Tyler urges him to peel his t-shirt off.

Everything goes in the mist of midnight, he doesn’t quite remember how he’s ended up in a wheelchair with Tyler behind him, taking him to the operation room.

“It’s gonna kill me,” Josh says.

“I’m gonna kill it,” Tyler responds. 

They’re fully prepared, all the scans and ultrasounds and other tests are done, pinned into a folder that is now as thick as the Bible. Tyler tows him towards the surgery bed, connecting him to monitors and IV stands like an android. In his glasses and a surgical mask, Tyler looks almost alien-like. And Josh loves it, he loves Tyler even more when the anesthetic finally kicks in, turning the bright lights above him to the Sun and the Moon and stars, all the planets collide all at once.

Then, there’s a plastic mask on Josh’s face, a flow of something sweet fills his nose and his lungs.

“Good luck,” Tyler whispers.

 _‘Good luck,’_ Josh thinks back.

Josh is in the center of this swirling Galaxy.  

It’s gonna be a great discovery, one giant leap for mankind.

 

***

Awakening is like getting out of the spacecraft simulator for the first time. Josh’s brain spins and makes summersaults, but it doesn’t make him feel nauseous.

“One… Two… Three,” there are white-gloved fingers in front of his nose. “Look at me, Josh.”

And Josh looks at him.

Here’s the camera stand, the light is flickering, and here’s Tyler’s worried face. He’s so close Josh sees the capillaries in his eyeballs. Tyler’s green apron is sprinkled with blood. The lower part of Josh’s body is covered with a surgical blanket; his stomach is numb and bandaged just like Tyler’s forearm was.

“Hello,” Josh manages.

He can’t think much, the only thing he’s aware of is that he’s still alive.

“The surgery went just fine,” Tyler tugs the mask down. “You’ve been pretty good — haven’t puked, haven’t peed yourself, haven’t —”

“Stop it,” Josh hisses. Not because he’s angry, he simply can’t talk.

Tyler is still recording but Josh can’t ask him to turn the camera off.

“I wanna see it,” Josh says.

Tyler snaps his fingers, turning to a table on wheels and rolling it to Josh’s bed. It’s enough to turn his head to the side to spot the creature lying on the tray.

“Holy shit,” Josh whispers.

“Holy parasite,” Tyler corrects him.

In fact, it’s a parasite itself, half covered with a grey cocoon that has apparently been cut by Tyler to take a glance at the alien embryo. It’s a dark-brown frame that has six thin legs all pressed to its chest and belly, abnormally big head bowed. Its ribs are protruding; it has little bumps on its skull and big closed eyes, glued by thick membranes. It’s permanently breathless. 

“You had two more weeks before this crap would wake up,” Tyler prods the embryo with his scalpel. “Almost seven-inch long, 2,2lbs. It’s a female, well, at least it has something resembling a vagina. It started convulsing when I took it out, and… alien experiment gone wrong. It’s dead. I’m sorry.”

“I can’t believe,” Josh croaks out. The embryo and the tray still have his blood on them. If Josh wasn’t that drugged, he’d pass out immediately.

“My assistants didn’t believe it too.”

Tyler takes the gloves and his bloodied outfit off.

The baby-alien has a mark that looks like a laughing emoji on its forehead.

 

***

Tyler films the process of Josh’s recovery which goes pretty fast as a compensation for his previous sufferings. For three more months they take pictures and attach the details of their research to be prepared for every single punch the press is about to land on them. They work on a documentary and watch it in the evenings, eating pop-corn and debating whether they should cut some parts out or not. Tyler interviews his surgery assistants and nurses not to get their case labeled as a _falsification_.

The magazines bloom up; the Truth About The Laughing Queen flies all around the globe.

That’s when the Dun-Joseph tandem walks out of the shadows.

They don’t lose their jobs, because the world believes them despite the death of an embryo. The _alien_ is departed to a California Science Center and locked in a glass chamber as the most precious exhibit. They’re making the science great again. After the global conference and tens of the interviews later, their uncommon story helps them get two awards — Space Award and ASA Award*; here’s a huge celebration afterwards, sponsored by both NASA and Space Symposium.

_It was worth it._

They stumble onstage just like students with their school project, and Josh hopes that Tyler is gonna be the one to talk. He feels almost _reborn_.  

“Mr. Joshua William Dun and Mr. Tyler Robert Joseph,” the leader of the Space Foundation eyes them with respect. “You’ve made a fantastic discovery and it’s a big honor for all of us to have such qualified specialists in all fields of science. We’re grateful for all the work you’ve done. Congratulations!”

Short clips of  _Holy Parasite Documentary_ flash on the big screen behind their backs.

The audience applauses.

The scars on Josh’s stomach itch under his tux.

It’s not the end of the good news — Josh finds out that he’s on the list of the astronauts on their mission of exploring one of the planets discovered by NASA, potentially suitable for life.

This parasite is indeed holy with golden streaks, and —       

“The expedition starts once you recover, Mr. Dun,” NASA Administrator says.

“You’ve become so famous, dude,” Mark smiles. Mark is on the list too.

Tyler, unfortunately, isn’t.

Tyler obviously feels uncomfortable with this bustle around them, with this lavish restaurant and expensive drinks.

“I just want to do my job,” he says as he sips on his wine.

Josh wants to kiss him in front of everyone.

 

***

The morning after the celebration Josh wakes up alone. He hasn’t undressed when he _and Tyler_ made it home, going straight to the bed and passing out like a couple of nerds during a college party.

He misses Tyler already.

Soon enough, he discovers that Tyler hasn’t even left the house, hiding in the downstairs bathroom; it’s a bit strange, he could’ve used the one their bedroom is connected to. But well, Tyler’s obviously having problems — he’s lying on the floor next to the toilet, his forearm is rested over his eyes and his tie is loosened. Josh chuckles sympathetically and tousles his hair then unbuttoning his white shirt.

He understands.

“How are you doing?”

Tyler uncovers his pale face and blinks at the ceiling lights.

“I’m hangover.”

“You’ve had like three glasses of wine. Not enough to cause a hangover,” Josh states.

“The wine was _bad_.”

“No, it wasn’t —”

Tyler throws his tie over his shoulder, crawling back to the toilet. It mostly looks like he wants to drown himself there, Josh catches the plastic seat when it’s about to hit Tyler’s head. Tyler doesn’t notice.

“Let’s call it just… _Alcohol intolerance_ ,” he coughs up.

Josh is pretty sure the symptoms of it should be different from what he sees. He leans against the doorframe, thinking if he should rub Tyler’s back while he upchucks his stomach’s contents.

“We’re like…” Josh starts, any assumptions seem to be pretty logical. “We’re not using condoms. Anymore.”

He’s clean, he’s sure — both of them are. But Josh’s experience of being a carrier could’ve impacted his semen quality, and who knows, maybe he’s now capable of impregnating males as well. He’s more than alert when Tyler belches out bile and flushes the toilet.

“Ty?” Josh squats down. “Wanna make a test?”

Tyler just flips him off, his middle finger is the best answer thrown at Josh’s face.

**Author's Note:**

> ASA* — American Surgical Association
> 
> Laughing Queen spiders don't exist  
> \--  
> PantaloonWarrior, seenarain - THANK you!!  
> \--  
> Green Day – Peacemaker


End file.
